For surely with purity pouring into your lungs
and sanctifying your untarnished shell,
you’ll challenge that mystic wonderland —
that desert where you inhaled silence with sand,
and like a great sieve,
you’ll spit out the fallacies;
ultimately holding only substance.

Then, from mountain or valley,
like a prophet you’ll expound
the awareness that burns gassy in your lungs,
and which must be expelled.

Gasping, gesturing, nearly mad,
you’ll point — unable to shout —
point to the sacred light that parts the dust,
revealing the unseen truth to the dim.

Or maybe you’ll scatter your message electronically,
flinging it into the cyber-universe
like essence of enlightenment for their stinky souls.

Presently, take charge of those fearsome bones.
Now, before the extinction,
where that slow stifling compression of the senses
crystalizes in destruction,
and former footholds burn like hotbeds for lost souls.